


Facing Your Demons

by mllemaenad



Series: Joanna Hawke [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Right of Annulment, Rite of Tranquility, Tranquil Mages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 16:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8540395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mllemaenad/pseuds/mllemaenad
Summary: The Templars believe the Rite of Tranquillity to be irreversible.  The Templars believe that their use of the Rite is justified by the disobedience of their charges. The Templars believe that no one may resist them when the Right of Annulment is invoked – least of all the Tranquil.The Templars are wrong about many things.





	

The corridor ended abruptly in a smooth stone wall – no door through it, no doors on either side; no doors along the whole thing from beginning to end, for that matter.  Ser Varian swore and turned about, glowering at his impassive charges as though they’d put the wall up on purpose to thwart him. What the passage had been for he couldn’t say, but he had _hoped_ it would lead it out of this cursed place.

 

“ _Find the Tranquil_ ,” the knight-commander had said. A special mission, she’d said.  Half the city was on fire, the grand cleric was dead and mages and abominations alike were rampaging through the streets – and what Knight-Commander Meredith wanted was for someone to go herd these two-legged sheep to safety. When he’d dared stop long enough to ask her why she’d looked like she was going to strike him. Then she’d pulled herself straight and looked him in the eye – the way she had when he’d come out of his vigil and taken up his arms and he’d known for certain that he’d follow her anywhere she asked – and she’d said: “Because the Tranquil know lyrium, Varian.  Now more than ever, we Templars need those who understand and appreciate its power.”

 

That hadn’t quite flown with Varian. Though he hadn’t partaken of more than the prescribed dose himself, he knew plenty of the lads and lasses had found ways of getting their hands on more. It didn’t take more than a nodding acquaintance in the Carta and a pocketful of gold to procure as much dust as you liked. What more could a Templar need than that? Still, when the knight-commander looked at you like that, you didn’t want to disappoint her.

 

They’d brought down the barricade the mages had built against the front doors over an hour ago. It hadn’t been like they’d planned. When the knight-commander had begun discussing Annulling the Circle some five or six months ago she’d said it would be _orderly_. Efficient.  When permission for the Right arrived they’d do nothing at first: just let the day run as usual; give the mages a last meal and their put them in their cells with the doors locked for the night. Once they were sure they were all abed, two or three Templars would go into each cell and put them down in their sleep. Nice and easy, and no chance for any of them to try any blood magic.

 

Instead, the Fereldan bitch they’d been fool enough to make Champion had been there, right in the front of the crowd, and she’d called out _now_ as they’d come through the door. A dozen of his comrades had gone down in fire and blood when the mages let loose their spells. He’d seen some knife-eared demon put his hand right through Knight-Lieutenant Caden’s breastplate – right through his _chest_ – and pluck out his heart, and then he’d legged it, just like the knight-commander had said he should. He’d left all of them to face magic and abominations and traitors so he could take care of the blighted _Tranquil_.

 

In the end he’d only found four: two males and two females, like some sort of matched set. Where the rest were the Maker only knew – dead or wandered off, or maybe the mages had sacrificed them to summon more demons. These ones, though, had followed him biddably enough. Now they just stood behind him, dull-eyed and vacant as ever. Tranquil didn’t even have enough sense to put themselves out if they were on fire. Still, they cleaned everything, and they cooked, and they fetched lyrium up from the storerooms and ran all kinds of errands for the knight-commander. If anyone could find their way out of the labyrinth that was the Gallows, it was the Tranquil.

 

“You,” he said, pointing at a young woman with white-blonde hair and skin so pale that the brand on the forehead stood out like an angry jewel. “What’s the nearest entrance to here?”

 

She looked back along the corridor, considering the options, he could only assume, and said –

 

* * *

 

 

_Helena was happy. She was so happy she couldn’t contain it, though she knew she should; Templars got nasty when they saw mages smiling, and were likely to kick or shove, or make you stand in a corner for an hour reciting the Chant so you missed dinner. It wasn’t smart to be happy, but how could she be anything else today?_

_The ring was on a cord around her neck, well hidden beneath her robes and her shift. Jaken had asked her last night. How he’d even smuggled it into the Circle she couldn’t have guessed – but it had been a brave and romantic thing to do. They’d never be given permission to marry, of course. Mages almost never were, certainly not apprentices, and that he was an elf made the whole thing impossible. But Melina had grown up in a Chantry orphanage before her magic started, and knew the right words to say; she had done it before, and all she required was your word you wouldn’t tell the Templars – and a few ingredients nicked from the alchemy stores for her ‘private experiments’. They would be married in the eyes of the Maker, and if they could only be husband and wife in secret, then that was still better than what many people had._

_Now she just had to reach the western ramparts. She’d got permission from one of the senior enchanters to study the stars there tonight – even had a Templar knight-lieutenant sign the form. Technically, Jaken was supposed to be in the library, but Ser Roderick had the watch this evening, and he was so lyrium-addled that he couldn’t count to ten with the aid of his fingers, let alone keep track of how many apprentices were in the room._

_They could meet there, and find some quiet corner to make love, and to plan when and how they would manage the wedding._

_Helena took the stairs at a jog, not caring how her legs protested at the unaccustomed exercise, and let her hand rest on the ring buried beneath her clothes. She didn’t see him until it was too late – until her nose was bouncing painfully off a Templar breastplate._

_“I’m sorry, messere,” she said hurriedly, blinking hard to clear the tears the sudden blow had brought to her eyes. If it was one of the nicer ones – like Thrask or Emeric – she might still be all right. Most of the Templars would insist on punishing her, though, and then she would be late … and likely bruised._

_“You shouldn’t be here, girl,” the Templar said, and Helena’s insides twisted at the sound of his voice. When her eyes cleared enough to see, she found herself staring up into Ser Alrik’s sharp blue ones; more than anything it frightened her how pleased he looked._

_“I have permission, messere,” she said, shaking now, and fumbled in her pockets for the form. But Ser Alrik’s hands were fumbling too. He did that. Everyone knew he did that. When Knight-Commander Meredith ordered the apprentice quarters searched, he liked to do the job himself – even though it was beneath his rank. And he was_ thorough _. Not just wardrobes and chests and mattresses, but robes and underthings too. You just put up with it, and hoped he didn’t take a liking to you. But now his hands were exactly where they should never be: on the small metal ring that you could only notice if you had your fingers right on it. He must have seen her touching it as she came up the stairs._

_“Do you have permission for this?” he enquired silkily as pulled on the cord to draw the ring out of her robes. “No, I don’t think so. What is this? A tool for forbidden magic? Or a stolen bauble? You_ know _what happens to mages who steal.”_

_“_ No, _messere,” she insisted. “It’s – I –”_

_But she couldn’t tell him where it had come from. If she did, they’d go after Jaken too. Taking a lover was a far worse crime than stealing._

_The Templars pushed rags into her mouth to muffle her screams as they dragged her to the Chamber. When the Rite was done she couldn’t remember what the fuss had been about. Later, when Ser Alrik ordered her to go to his quarters and undress, she couldn’t think of any rational reason to refuse him._

 

* * *

 

 

“– The nearest entrance would be the front doors, back the way we came. But our chances of survival are almost nil if we take that route.”

 

Varian scowled deeply, ready to curse the Tranquil and their complete inability to appreciate the urgency of the situation, but – credit where it was due – the woman continued: “The next closest would be an escape tunnel that runs beneath the north-west kitchen. Mages have used it for months with no reports of a collapse, and I do not believe that any Templar has discovered and closed it yet.”

 

“An escape tunnel?” Varian asked incredulously. “If you knew about it, then why in Andraste’s name didn’t you say something?”

 

The woman regarded him, well, _tranquilly_ , and retorted: “Until now, no Templar has ever questioned me about it. Under the circumstances, it is fortunate that they did not.”

 

That wasn’t quite an answer, Varian thought. True, the Tranquil were notoriously incurious, but they knew the rules and they ought to have known to make a report when they became aware that someone was breaking them. Still, he couldn’t fault the logic of the moment: an escape tunnel was exactly what he needed.

 

“All right,” he relented. “I’ll have a word with Knight-Captain Cullen about _clarifying_ your duty to the Templar Order later. For now – you lead the way, but fall behind me if there’s trouble.”

 

There was trouble, soon enough. It was just a mage, at first: an elven man cradling his injured left hand against his chest as he stumbled along the corridor. He’d been muttering something about ‘protecting the children’, but had stopped dead when he saw the blonde Tranquil woman.

 

“ _Helena_ –” he’d said, urgently, and Varian had taken his chance: he’d put his sword right through the mage, and left him gurgling on the floor.

 

Where there was one, though, there were soon more. To get close to the kitchens they had to retrace their steps somewhat, and that brought them closer to the entrance hall, where the fighting was worst. When he saw a mage fighting a Desire demon, no more than fifty paces away, he called a halt. Desire demons were well above his paygrade – but going _around_ wasn’t an option.

 

This time, Varian suppressed the urge to curse aloud: the very last thing he wanted was to draw the demon’s attention. At least for the moment the mage was keeping it busy, but sooner or later it would either possess her, or kill and _then_ possess her. Then what would he do?

 

While he considered the matter, trying not to give in to panic, the eldest of the Tranquil stepped up beside him, and touched his arm.

 

“There is a room on the right-hand side of this corridor, no more than twenty paces from here. It was once used for practising combat magic, but has been long abandoned. If we move quickly and quietly, I believe we can take refuge there until the danger has passed.”

 

Varian looked at the man incredulously. He was old – very old – with only a few wisps of white hair left on his head, and deep lines etched around his eyes and mouth. That was unusual in a Tranquil: they smiled placidly at visitors, but frowned only when specifically asked to do so, and then never held the expression long. Even the older ones tended to be smooth faced, as if time itself had passed them by. Whether the Tranquil got addled with age he didn’t know; this one sounded as though he were, though.

 

“When the demon is finished with the mage, we will be trapped in there,” he said. “And unless you have another exit in mind, we can’t go back the way we came.”

 

The Tranquil turned towards the fight – the mage had got a barrier up, and was attacking the demon with some kind of ice magic. After observing for a few moments, he nodded, as though satisfied with what he saw. “Enchanter Radella was my apprentice. She is one of the few remaining mages in this Circle proficient in magical combat. I am confident that she will prevail over her opponent. She will then likely re-join her comrades. Then we can move on.”

 

Varian gaped – but the old man was already moving, and –

 

* * *

 

_Gregory huddled in the doorway with the young woman’s head resting against his knee. Her breathing was shallow and clearly painful but she kept trying to talk – apologising over and over again for failing him._

_“It isn’t your fault,” he told her firmly. “It’s mine. All those years of practice, and I never knew how I’d fair in a real fight. Killing people is harder than it looks. Even in self-defence.”_

_“Never – should have – had to,” the girl gasped. “Route was – supposed to be clear.”_

_And there was the heart of it: there had been Templars where there ought not to have been. They’d had to fight, and though they’d got away now his guide was dying and he was utterly lost in Kirkwall’s tangled back alleys. There was very little these days that the Templars did not ruin._

_It should never have come to this. He’d always been loyal. He’d undertaken his Harrowing when the old knight-commander, Guylian, had still been an up-and-coming knight-captain. Likewise, he’d seen four apprentices safely through_ their _Harrowings, welcoming them back with understated praise and secret joy. They were his children – the only ones he could ever have and hope to keep._

_In the early days he had specialised in teaching the art of combat. While he himself had never aspired to the role of knight-enchanter, there were many apprentices who had: they wanted to be Grey Wardens, or to serve in a noble court and defend a lord or lady with the might of their magic. Every apprentice who had those dreams had to start somewhere, and that somewhere was with him: learning not only to conjure fire and ice, but to guide and control it amidst chaos and confusion. None of his first four apprentices had been allowed to become knight-enchanters, but all had passed their Harrowings with ease. His first had left with the Wardens, and he hadn’t heard from him again. When Meredith took over no more mages were released, to the Wardens or to noble courts, no matter how great their skill._

_After his third apprentice, Meredith had outlawed the study of magical combat, saying that it only made mages more dangerous to both themselves and others. It had been a blow – but he had adapted. Telekinesis, for example, was not technically a weapon … but any young mage who lacked the imagination to see how it_ could _be so was never meant to be a warrior anyway._

_His fifth apprentice had been something of a surprise – like a child born to a mother grown old and grey. Briaca. She’d been a Fereldan girl, carried over to the Marches by parents fleeing from the Blight, and she said that her grandmother had been a Chasind woman who had not believed that magic was a sin. No one had wanted her, and unwanted apprentices had a tendency to disappear. When he’d volunteered to take her, First Enchanter Orsino had almost wept with relief._

_She hadn’t flourished, though. She’d argued with the Templars and the Sisters. They’d had her beaten and starved as punishment. One day she had confided in him that she intended to run. King Alistair was promising protection to any mage who came to him for sanctuary, and so she intended to be on the first ship headed for Ferelden. Gregory had bent the Maker’s law before. What man or woman could swear they had not? But the day he let Briaca leave the Circle without telling the Templars was first time he broke it outright._

_They caught her anyway. They’d assembled all the mages in the Gallows entryway and hanged her on a makeshift – of all horrors –_ gallows _. The charge had been blood magic, but Gregory didn’t believe it. They’d killed her because Kirkwall had enough Fereldan dog-lords to deal with._

_That was when he decided that Briaca had been right: it was past time to leave. One of his apprentices had known where it was safe to leave a note to contact the underground. Within a week a young woman had come into the Gallows in disguise and led him out through an old passage. The plan had been to head for the docks, but the Templars had found them and now – here they were._

_“What’s your name?” he asked the young woman, taking hold of her hand. “In all the hurry, I never got the chance to ask.”_

_“Lily,” she replied, her voice little more than an extended wheeze. “Lily Bardin.”_

_“Well, Lily Bardin, I’m honoured to have had your assistance, but I think it’s time I helped you instead. There will be more Templars here soon. I’ll tell them I escaped on my own, and that you were only caught in the crossfire. Then they’ll have to take care of you.”_

_Lily’s eyes widened in horror, and she clutched at his hands as fiercely as she was able. “No –_ run _.”_

_Gregory chuckled ruefully and shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m a bit old to be running when I don’t know where I’m going. Let’s see that one of us gets out of this alive, shall we? You need a proper spirit healer. We’ve still got one alive in the Circle, even after – everything. But I promise I’ll help you live till you can be brought to him.”_

_When the Templars finally came, Gregory was grey-faced with exhaustion from pouring Creation magic into wounds it could never hope to heal. They seized him by the arms, oblivious to his semi-coherent protestations and let Lily fall on the ground; her head struck the stairs and began to bleed._

_“Not a mage,” one of them said, bending over her to check. That was the last time they looked at her._

_Even then, Gregory didn’t grasp what they meant to do until he actually laid eyes on the brand. He was a Harrowed mage, and a respected enchanter. Templar blood had been spilled and he had expected to hang, but not – this._

_He was brave. He didn’t scream until the brand actually touched his forehead. But after, when they questioned him, he informed the Templars that his former apprentice had put him in touch with the underground._

_When they hanged_ him, _Gregory looked on with perfect detachment._

 

* * *

 

 

– Varian found he had little choice but to follow. Tranquil were not stealthy the way, say, a thief was stealthy, but they had the knack of blending in to their surroundings, like a piece of talking furniture. Demons could see them if they looked at them straight on, of course; they could certainly kill them if they got their claws in them. But the Tranquil weren’t interesting to a demon. In point of fact, _he_ was the liability here: the only one with a connection to the Fade, the only one with a torrent of lyrium running through his veins.

 

Nevertheless, they made it through the door. Varian stacked dusty old tables and chairs against it to keep it closed – the Tranquil, meanwhile, watched him passively. Admittedly useful as it had turned out to be in a crisis, their absolute calm was not at all comforting. They recognised danger, but they didn’t fear it. Varian wanted to see the sweat on his comrades’ brows. He wanted to exchange anxious grins and hear reassurances that they’d get out of this, they’d find a way. The Tranquil couldn’t be brave. They certainly couldn’t share their courage in the spirit of camaraderie.

 

There were noises outside the door: the crackle and hiss of magic, coming from both the mage and the demon. The demon talked ceaselessly – promising, threatening, taunting; the mage was silent, focused on the fight. Finally, there was a roar as though a cold wind had rushed down the corridor. Then – silence.

 

“I believe the battle is done,” the old man announced. “Someone called up a blizzard out there. Radella specialises in ice magic. It is more likely that she was victorious than the demon. We should be safe to proceed.”

 

“ _More likely_ ,” said Varian, staring at the door with undisguised trepidation. He was betting his life on the instinct of a Tranquil and the strength of a mage – the last things any good servant of the Maker should be relying on.

 

“Andraste guide me,” he prayed. “Help me do my duty.”

 

He began to take down his makeshift barricade. He didn’t get far.

 

There was no noise this time. Only light. It shot under the door, quick and brutal as demon claws, but undeniably cleaner; it forced its way past the doorframe and even seemed to find its way through the bulk of the door. _Pride demon_ , Varian thought. Other demons might well bring that much force to bear in combat, but what else could use that much power incidentally? What else, despite its magic, could convey such a false sense of purity?

 

“ _Maker_ ,” he breathed, and gripped his sword. It would be a good death. A Templar’s death, purging the world of evil. And yet his hands trembled.

 

“These might assist you.”

 

Varian turned, and then adjusted his gaze down. It was the elven woman, nut brown and curly haired, and barely half his height – but with those ridiculous rabbit ears extending out in unnatural directions. The brand was the most respectable thing about her. Now she was proffering a handful of runes, and there was something in her voice – or perhaps in her face – that made him pause before snatching them away.

 

“Why did you bring these? And since you had them, why didn’t you give them to me earlier?”

 

She tilted her head, and were it not impossible in a Tranquil, Varian would have said she found his question puzzling.

 

“I have been endeavouring to protect them. They are costly to make, and these are fine work. We are instructed to ensure our work is not broken or squandered. But if we all perish here –”

 

* * *

 

 

_The wisp bobbed excitedly over the ink pot, trilling and glittering as though it had stumbled upon the lost treasures of Arlathan._

_Mihna flapped her hands at him with mock urgency. “Shhhhh! You’ll wake the others.”_

_In fact, she strongly suspected several of the others were already awake, and watching with fascination over the edges of their blankets. None of them would turn her in. This wasn’t_ forbidden _magic. It wasn’t wrong. But the Templars would almost certainly order a whipping for summoning spirits unsupervised. They’d made a pact, all of them, after little Meggan, only twelve years old, had been beaten so badly that Sister Adrienne had come down from the chapel and made them stop before they killed her. All apprentices together. Never tell the Templars anything, even if it seems harmless._

_She hoped Nesta was among those watching. She hoped she was impressed. Most of her thoughts these days that weren’t about magic were about getting Nesta to notice her._

_The little wisp zipped across the room and into her waiting hands. Mihna curved her hands around the little ball of light, murmuring her apologies for scolding him. Enchanter Beatrisa said in her lessons that some spirits liked to think of themselves as_ he _or_ she _and some as_ it _or_ they _. Wisps, however, were much too simple to have any opinion on the matter. But Mihna thought she was wrong: some wisps didn’t care how you thought of them, but this one did. This wisp was definitely a he, and_ he _was her friend._

_She’d always had a knack with spirits. Even before she’d known she was a mage she’d felt them stirring in her dreams, and had wondered if it was the Creators watching over her. She had first met her friend in dreams. They’d walked the Fade together, side by side, and then she’d learned how to bring him into the world._

_While life in the Circle wasn’t what Mihna would have chosen for herself, she couldn’t pretend she didn’t love her magic. Elves were despised and disregarded. Mages were hated too, but nobody could say they weren’t important._

_Senior Enchanter Barnet, the Circle’s healer, had accepted her as an apprentice._ He _was important. Even the grand cleric came to see him, sometimes. So had the viscount, when there was a viscount. She was going to be like him one day, even if First Enchanter Orsino said it was better that she not let people know she spoke to spirits. Every Circle needed a healer. At least one._

_Her wisp friend bounced vigorously against the constraint of her hands. Mihna let go hurriedly, and he flew over to the locked and barred door, trilling more sharply than ever._

_“I’m_ sorry _,” Mihna hissed, but he was inconsolable. Red light crackled around him, and for a moment Mihna thought he might explode – like an experiment in enchanting gone horribly wrong. Then she heard the booted feet in the hall. Templars._

_There were four of them, and they came into the dormitory in full armour and with their swords drawn – like they were hunting a maleficar, not checking on the apprentices. At first she couldn’t understand the fuss, but then one of them pointed directly at her wisp._

_“Look,” she said. “Just as the knight-captain said. The little knife-ear’s using blood magic; summoning bloody demons right under our noses. He saw her cut her hand the other day.”_

_“No!” Mihna protested. “It wasn’t blood magic!” Yes, she_ had _cut her hand – but only to practise healing it. How else was she supposed to learn?_

_She looked around to the others for support. They were all clearly awake, now, sitting up in their beds. But none of them moved or spoke. She locked eyes with Nesta and saw that she was frozen, her lovely brown eyes wide and fixed with horror._

_Two Templars stepped forward to seize her arms while the others turned to face the other apprentices, standing guard. Her wisp moved – or maybe blinked, skipping through the Fade to come between them. The red light expanded around him until he was nearly twice his ordinary size, and he was no longer trilling; he was_ humming _, low and deep, like a kind of spirit growl._

_“Maker!” one of the Templars said, recoiling. Mihna felt him go cold, the way Templars did when they made your magic shrivel up inside you and the Fade feel as though it were leagues away. He thrust out with his sword, putting it straight through her friend and stopping just short of running Mihna through as well. The wisp seemed to crumple in on himself, all the bright light first fading, then becoming a kind of expanding shadow. Then he was gone._

_“You killed him! He’s dead! You killed him!” Mihna wailed, not caring that she was shouting at Templars. She tried to summon her magic to fight them, to bring lightning down to avenge her friend, but they were all using their powers now and she couldn’t summon a single spark._

_When they hauled her up and dragged her out into the corridor, she instead turned her power inward, hurling her mind repeatedly against the barrier they had raised between her and the Fade. Maybe the wisp_ wasn’t _dead. Maybe he was only hurt, and needed her to come to him. It was the only hope she had._

_She kept trying when they threw her in a cell and stood on guard outside. She kept trying when they brought her before the knight-commander the next day, staring at her feet and barely hearing them call her maleficar. She tried, hopelessly, to push her way past them and into the Fade until they touched the brand to her forehead and cut her off from the Fade forever._

_Mihna had always been clever, and she had been very good at magic. She was put among the Tranquil who were studying the art of enchantment. She knew she was as useful and productive in this capacity as she would have been as a healer. And though she remembered that she had once found the destruction of a wisp very upsetting, she no longer remembered why._

 

* * *

 

 

“– then these will be destroyed regardless.”

 

“Idiot rabbit,” said Varian, exasperated. With this one, you could hardly tell whether she was stupid because she was Tranquil or stupid because she was a bloody knife-ear.

 

Staring warily at the door, he gripped the runes in his hand. This one would make a wall of ice; that one would call up spark. The other two – well, he wasn’t sure, but most enchantments were made for noblemen to put on their weapons and armour, so it would do something. While he didn’t think he could suppress enough of the demon’s power to defeat it, but a well-made enchantment might kill it in one go. The Tranquil had said they were fine work. Now he just had to hope she knew what she was talking about.

 

The door came open, pushing the remains of his barricade aside into a graceless pile of splinters. When Varian saw what it was, he clenched his fingers around the runes so tightly that it was a wonder he didn’t crush them to lyrium dust.

 

It was _him_.

 

The abomination. The one who had murdered the grand cleric and brought the city to ruin. His eyes shone with unholy light, and Varian knew that _this_ was the thing from which he’d sworn an oath to protect the world. But by holy Andraste, he wished the job had fallen to someone else. The knight-commander could have picked anyone to wade in here. Why him?

 

He carefully moved one rune between his fingers, ready to invoke its power, and then there was another voice and another face in the doorway.

 

“Anders! Isabela says there are still children here. We need to hurry.”

 

She was many things at once, the Champion. Varian saw _the treacherous Fereldan bitch_ , yes: she was dishevelled and bloody and her eyes looked red and sore. Just another fool who’d thought they could defy the Maker’s will and triumph and had found out the cost. But you couldn’t miss the strength in her arms, or the clear calm of her voice. Some of the blood had smeared across her nose, like barbarian war paint. She couldn’t win against true servants of the Maker – not forever – but he didn’t think _she_ knew that. No matter what else she was, she would always be Kirkwall’s Champion.

 

“There is suffering here,” the abomination thundered. “Their voices are choked almost to silence, but I can hear them still. I will see them avenged.”

 

There was power in his hands: a demon’s mind drawing on a mage’s magic, the worst thing for any Templar. The Champion had an arrow nocked. Both were staring at Varian with murder in their eyes.

 

“It’s one Templar, Anders. We have to be quick. We have to –”

 

Then her gaze shifted, and she was looking past Varian at the Tranquil arrayed behind him. Her eyes widened, and she gasped: “ _Maker’s breath._ ”

 

The screaming started then, and Varian was –

 

* * *

 

 

_Aaron was crying._

_He didn’t want to cry. He wanted to be brave and strong, like his mama had said he should be when he’d made the candle flames dance at the Summerday festival and she’d sent word for the Templars to come._

_But he still couldn’t seem to stop._

_They hadn’t hit him or anything bad like that, but they’d made him leave his toy wolf behind, and they’d taken away the woven bracelet his sister had given him as a goodbye present at the same time they cut his hand to take his blood. Then they’d given him robes and told him to go where the other apprentices went, and to_ always _mind the Templars._

_He did those things, but he felt sick all the time and he didn’t like the food, and he wanted to see his mama so much it hurt. So he cried. Mostly he did it at night, in bed, so no one would know. But sometimes he’d be walking to one of the lessons, or sitting in a practice room trying to do magic right, and everything would just leak out in front of everyone._

_None of the other apprentices talked to him much. They had at first, a bit: it had been a boy named Stefan who’d told him crying at night was safest, and there had been an older girl called Aislin who said to stay near her and keep his head down till he felt better the first time he’d started crying in the middle of a lesson. But he hadn’t felt better_ ever _, and after a while they started avoiding him. Once he’d heard someone say “He’s not going to last”, and everyone around had nodded and looked at him like he had the Blight._

_Right now they were all pretending he wasn’t there. A dozen apprentices were there in the practice room, making little snowstorms or giving each other little stamina boosts. Enchanter Eolann was supervising, with his apprentice beside him, and five Templars were lounging against the walls in case anyone got possessed or started using blood magic. Aaron was sitting in the corner with tears running down his cheeks. He couldn’t do magic. He’d only ever done magic when he was happy, and then not on purpose. Trying to do it when everyone was watching him and his insides felt like they were trying to squirm up into his throat was hopeless._

_The door opened and two more Templars came in. Aaron huddled back against the wall. At least the apprentices only ignored him. When he’d first arrived, the Templars had laughed and sneered at his blubbering, but lately they’d started grabbing him and asking him questions. Was he having nightmares? Did he see strange things or hear strange voices? He didn’t know how to answer them: sometimes he woke up crying, but he didn’t remember why, and in the Circle everything seemed strange. Saying things like that only made them angry. Sometimes they hit him or twisted his arm to get him to give_ proper _answers, but that only made him cry more. Then they got angrier, and things got worse. He didn’t want the Templars to see him today._

_They went over to the enchanter, and started talking to him. After a while the enchanter pointed Aaron out and the Templars came over to him._

_“Come with us,” one of them said, and Aaron got up. Mind the Templars, they’d said, and he did try. Luckily they didn’t ask him to dry his eyes because he didn’t think he’d be able to do that._

_They led him out of the room and down some stairs. Once they’d made sure he was following them properly, they almost seemed to forget he was with them. Or they did until the Fereldan got in their way._

The Fereldan _. Everyone called him that, even though he’d been in the Gallows for years. Everyone knew him, too, even though there were too many mages here for everyone to know everyone else by name. The Fereldan was always in trouble. He argued with the Templars and the Chantry sisters. He said things hadn’t been this bad where he’d come from, and they shouldn’t be this bad here, either. He wouldn’t keep to the schedule the knight-lieutenants posted up on the dormitory walls every fortnight. When they were allowed out to exercise, he wandered out of the Gallows courtyard and didn’t come back for hours – unless the Templars found him and dragged him. They’d tried flogging him and locking him up, but it didn’t seem to do any good. The Fereldan liked trouble._

_Now, he stepped between Aaron and the Templars._

_“Does the first enchanter know about this?” he asked._

_“This is none of your business, Fereldan,” one of them retorted. “Get back to your cell, or we’ll start locking you in there again.”_

_“I know where you’re taking him,” the Fereldan persisted. “I heard you, earlier. You’re supposed to get the first enchanter’s permission for the Rite, and Orsino would never let you do this to a child.”_

_They shoved him then, hard, into the wall, and Aaron shrank away from the violence._

_“You mages think you own this place,” sneered the second Templar. “And maybe that’s how it is in Ferelden. But here we’ve got Meredith. She gives the orders. Not Orsino.”_

_“He can’t be more than nine years old,” the Fereldan said, pleading now. “You_ can’t _.”_

_“And what if he gets possessed by a demon in the night?” asked the first Templar. “We’d get rid of a whole dormitory in one go, but Meredith says that’s not how we handle things. This is for your good, not ours.”_

_The Fereldan turned his head to look Aaron in the eye. “Run,” he said. “Run and hide. Try to buy some time. Orsino won’t stand for this. Neither will I.”_

_Aaron wanted to run. He did. He knew the Fereldan was trying to help him, and that the Templars weren’t being kind. But his legs seemed frozen in place, and his hands were shaking like they were itching to do the walking instead, and he still,_ still _, couldn’t stop crying._

_One of the Templars grabbed his arm and twisted it. The other punched the Fereldan in the stomach, hard, then kicked him when he fell._

_“Watch yourself, mage, unless you’re looking to get a brand of your own.”_

_The Fereldan didn’t get up again. He was curled in on himself, wheezing, and like everyone else, now seemed to have forgotten Aaron was there. Still, Aaron, watched him over his shoulder as he was hustled away, and hoped he’d be all right._

_He didn’t understand what the Templars were doing: the chanting, and the lyrium and the heated coals. But he understood enough to cry harder when they tied his hands together and made him kneel down._

_He only stopped crying when the Rite was done._

_They put him to work in the laundry, because they said the sight of a child Tranquil made some of the mages hysterical. Aaron didn’t mind being alone. He did see the Fereldan one more time, walking serenely down a hallway – the brand fresh on his forehead. He thought that it was good that it had turned out all right after all: the Fereldan had found the peace of Tranquillity._

* * *

 

 

– surprised to find that the sound wasn’t coming from him. It was one of the Tranquil. A young man – or boy, maybe, it was always hard to tell their ages – and he was on his knees, wailing. The woman, the one with the fair hair, was down on the floor with him. She had her arms around him, and she was weeping too. They were _all_ weeping.

 

“It’s all right,” the woman said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “It’s all right, Aaron. We’re back. We’re _ourselves_ again.”

 

“But you’re Tranquil!” Varian recoiled, horrified. This wasn’t – shouldn’t be – no, _wasn’t_ possible. Tranquillity was permanent. That was the whole point of the Rite: to make those mages who were too weak or too sinful for even Templars to control harmless _permanently_. And if it was, somehow, possible for them to come back, why, why, _why_ did it have to happen when they were standing right in a demon’s grasp?

 

“We _were_ Tranquil,” the old man corrected him, and he was smiling, somewhat giddily, through his tears. “Now, thank the Maker, we are mages again. _How_?”

 

That last was directed at the Champion, and Varian looked back at her. She looked sad – so sad – and yet he couldn’t help but notice that she still had an arrow aimed at his throat.

 

“It doesn’t last,” she said. “It’s because of him – because of Justice. When he goes, you’ll be as you were. I’m sorry.”

 

“You’re like my friend.” That was the elven woman, and she was looking at the abomination with a fascination that chilled Varian’s blood. “You’re like him, but so much bigger. I couldn’t break through the Veil, but you can. It’s as though it isn’t even there.”

 

“I am Justice,” it said. “And I cannot undo what was done to you – but I will see every Templar in this city pay for the crime.”

 

“I won’t go back to that,” said the blonde woman, still clinging to the sobbing boy. “It’s like you’re suffocating, but you don’t know it. I _won’t_ be that again.”

 

This was temptation, and Varian knew it. Demons spoke to mages in their minds. They talked about power and revenge against the Chantry for tearing down the magisters’ tyranny. Of _course_ the Tranquil – the former Tranquil – would be hearing that now. The thing was seducing them. They’d all be possessed. They’d kill him, and then they’d join the chaos in the Circle tower.

 

He remembered, then, the runes clutched in his hand.

 

“I’m sorry,” the Champion was saying again. “We’d give you time, if we had any to spare. But if there’s anything you want done – messages for your families, possessions rescued, anything at all – I swear I’ll do what I can to fulfil your wishes.”

 

“No time.” The old man furrowed his brow. “Did you say children? The apprentices are still here?”

 

“My friend went scouting. She says the Templars haven’t found them yet, but they will soon. We have to go to them.” She was only distracted for a moment, her eyes on the old man and her aim wavering. It was only the abomination still watching him – Varian would have laughed at the _only_ if he’d dared – but it was the best chance he was likely to get, unless the Maker himself chose this moment to come back and set everything right.

 

Varian moved quickly: flinging his fistful of runes into the Champion’s face and thrusting his sword at what he fervently hoped was the abomination’s heart. He felt the crack of power as he invoked the runes, and he was sure he felt his sword strike flesh – and then the world exploded, and he was hurtling through the air like a child’s ball flung carelessly over a fence.

 

When his eyes cleared, he found an arrow shaft sticking out of his shoulder, and a splinter of bone sticking out of his right leg. There was no pain, not yet, but there were the Tranquil standing over him – all four of them, with their hands outstretched.

 

The Champion and the abomination both were still standing in the doorway, but now there was a curtain of light between him and then.

 

“Anders, Anders, love,” the Champion was saying, urgently. “I’m fine, and he’s not likely to get up again. Take the barrier down before someone breaks their nose on it. _Justice_ , listen, we don’t have time for – we don’t have time for _anything_.”

 

And then Varian realised: the arrow was from _her_ sure enough, but it wasn’t the abomination who had thrown him back. It was _them_.

 

“Good!” the old man said effusively. “Very good! I’d have been proud to have any of you as an apprentice.”

 

They were panting, all of them, as if they’d just run ten miles straight uphill. He didn’t think there were demons in them though, not yet. It was as the old man had said: they really were _mages_ again.

 

The pain came then, sharp and all consuming, and he didn’t know quite what happened next – only that somehow the Champion was in the room, and they were all talking as though he wasn’t there.

 

“Are you sure?” she asked. She was holding a knife, now, one of a finely worked pair she wore in her belt; the bow was on her back, out of the way. “You don’t have to do this. If the Templars take you …”

 

“They won’t,” the boy replied, his voice still quavering, and he held out his hand. I haven’t made a choice for myself since I was nine. I think – I think I want to choose how I die. But I’m going to need that. I never did learn much magic here.”

 

She pressed the knife into his hands, and he held it awkwardly, like a Templar recruit on his first day of training – but the blade was real, not wooden, and he clearly meant to use it on more than straw men.

 

“How long do we have?” the old man asked.

 

“Not long. A few minutes, I think. I’m sorry. He has a mind of his own, even when he’s borrowing mine. Tends to just – go when he’s said all he means to.”

 

It took Varian a moment to realise that it was the abomination speaking: it sounded like a man, now, with the demon hidden inside. Through tear-blurred vision he saw that he – it – was standing by the Champion, and had a hand on her arm.

 

“Like a stray cat,” the Champion muttered, smiling just a little, and nudging him with her shoulder. “No wonder you like him. All right. While we have time. If you can draw the Templars away, only for a moment …”

 

“We’ll manage,” the elven woman said. She’d used a cord from her robes to pull her hair back from her face: useless brand and rabbit ears alike stood out like garish insults to the Maker. “I’m so angry, I don’t know, I was _never_ this angry – but maybe Nesta’s still alive. Maybe I can help her stay that way.”

 

They were going, then, hurrying through the door, and though he had thought he was more afraid of them than he was of anything in the world, Varian found himself crying out to them. “Don’t! Don’t leave me here! There are demons everywhere!”

 

“Demons,” the old man said, pausing in the doorway. “Champion – did you see a mage out there? She would have been about forty, of Rivaini descent, and favouring ice and cold in her spells. Last I saw, she was fighting a demon.”

 

“Oh.” The Champion shook her head. “There was a woman in the hall. She won her fight. She’d brought the demon down. But it had torn her to pieces. Even Anders couldn’t save her.”

 

The old man’s face crumpled, and he looked like he might fall to his knees then and there. “I see. He left her there, that one, to face it alone. So did I. It’s – one more thing to make amends for.”

 

“He murdered Jaken,” the blonde woman added. “He cut him down without even looking. Now I’ll never – _never –_ ”

 

There was light in her hands then, burning, and for a moment Varian thought she was going to roast him alive – but instead she took off, running, out the door and out of sight, into the fray. The others followed her as though she’d called for a charge.

 

The Champion remained, looking down at him with a faint expression of distaste. Her abomination hung back in the doorway.

 

“You were taking them for Meredith?” she asked, coolly.

 

He nodded. There seemed to be nothing else to do.

 

“I think she’s done quite enough to them for one lifetime. You’ve all done – more than enough to die for it. But I’ve never liked throat cutting.” She smiled tightly, and looked across the room, her eyes catching the abomination’s. “There _are_ a lot of demons out there, Templar. They’re ready to face them. Whatever gave you the right to decide they couldn’t?”

 

Then she was gone, the abomination beside her. Outside, Varian heard the blast and crackle of magic as his former charges made their stand. Demons were attracted to strong emotion, and where mages fought Templars there were bound to be plenty of them. He lay in the corner, with the door wide open, and tried to avoid their notice.

 

To be no more than a chair or a stool, discarded in an old classroom.

 

To be – tranquil.


End file.
